Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 58: A Breathing Space

Jowan, Carver, and Leliana reached Lothering on a late autumn afternoon, riding with a convoy of nearly empty supply wagons bound for Denerim. There was nothing much in the wagons, other than some boxes of human cremains, returning home to their unhappy families.

Leliana was tired, but rather excited about the opportunity to go to Denerim. Bronwyn had told her candidly that Teyrn Loghain did not want Leliana to go, but with so much happening, Bronwyn needed Leliana to run some errands for her in Denerim that only she was qualified to handle. Given the nature of the commissions, Leliana agreed. If Bronwyn needed the items on the list, she could hardly entrust them to Jowan or Carver. And she had taken Bronwyn's measurements very, very carefully, so there should be no inconvenient mistakes. They would stay overnight in Lothering with Carver's family, and then continue on. Jowan had vital business in Denerim, but Leliana thought her own errands were not without value.

Lothering was in good shape. The lookouts were posted in towers and on the walls. Everyone seemed busy with the aftermath of the rye harvest. Smoke rose from chimneys, and the smell of haystacks blended with incense floating from the Chantry. The Wardens told the wagon-captain that they would see him in the morning, and sought out the Hawke cottage.

They found it, of course, without trouble, but were puzzled to see a covered wagon drawn up in front of it. A pair of oxen were tied up next to the shed. The door of the house stood open.

"Mother?" Carver slid off his horse, and stood in the doorway, staring about him. "Bethany? What's going on?"

Jowan and Leliana looked at each other, and dismounted, following their friend.

Inside, the house was in chaos, the big kitchen filled with trunks and crates and bizarrely, a dressmaker's dummy. Charade's curly brown head peered up over the table. She was filling a box with crockery. "Hello, Carver. We're packing."

"You're packing?" Carver asked, bewildered. He stood in the midst of bedlam, wondering what had happened. "Where are you going? You're not still going to Gwaren, are you?"

Charade clicked her tongue impatiently, and then swore under her breath when she closed a lid on her finger. "No."

Bethany scrambled down from the loft, and gave her brother a fierce hug. "Carver! I'm so glad to see you. Did you get my letter?"

"No, I—"

She burst out in a rush, her cheeks uncommonly pink. "We're not going to Gwaren! We're not going to Kirkwall! We're going to Denerim and then to Highever!" She saw Jowan and Leliana standing uncertainly outside the door, and apologized. "Oh, I'm sorry! Please come in. Of course you can stay with us. I'm sorry everything is such a mess. We're packing up to join my brother Adam in the north. The Teyrn gave Adam leave to have his family join him. We're to live at Castle Highever! At least for the time being. Adam says it's very nice."

Carver stared, his breath taken away.

"Thank you," Leliana said softly. "We'll care for the horses. Come on, Jowan, and we'll let Carver have a private moment with his family."

Jowan patted Carver's shoulder. "They'll be safer in the north." He and Leliana walked away, whispering together.

Carver slumped onto the bench at the kitchen table. "But this is our home!"

Charade made a face and found some bread and a crock of butter in a crate. She started slicing the loaf, while Bethany put out cheese, sausage and apples.

"Not anymore," Bethany said softly. "Mother sold the cottage to Tobery Salt. His family needs more space than they have at his mother's, with all his sisters and their children living there now. She sold the cows and chickens, too. He takes possession the day after tomorrow, and then we'll take the Imperial Highway to Denerim. Adam gave us a map, and marked where we should stay. He gave us some coin, too. It's all planned out."

Carver shook his head, still stunned by the news. He asked Charade, "What about Uncle Gamlen? Is he well enough to travel?"

Charade's face was hidden by her hair. She kept on slicing bread, but jerked her head at a square box piled with the rest of the luggage. "That's Father. He's dead. Four nights ago. Nice of you to ask, though. After that, your mother decided we should take your brother up on his invitation. Nothing to hold us back, now."

Bethany touched her arm, her pretty face sympathetic. "As long as we're together, we'll be all right."

Leandra, wrapped in a handsome blue cloak, fluttered up the path, her arms out. "Is that Carver? Thank the Maker!" She embraced him for a long time. Then she took his face in her hands, looking him over. "You must have got the letter! I'm so glad! Are you coming with us?"

"I didn't get a letter. I was on my way to Denerim on Warden business."

"But that's all right!" Bethany said eagerly. "We can all go together! That's safer, anyway!"

"Oh…" Leandra was a little disappointed, but then rallied. "Well. You could use a nice strong cup of tea, Carver. Make the tea, Bethany."

Leliana and Jowan made their appearance, food was devoured and sleeping arrangements organized. With Gamlen no longer occupying the largest bedroom, that was not so difficult, though some of the beds had been stripped of their linens.

"Yes," Leliana told Leandra. "We have business in Denerim. We are traveling with the army wagon train in the morning. I am sure the captain would not object if you joined us. We may camp, but if you arrange your belongings carefully, you can sleep in the wagon, since it has a cover. Or under it. Be sure to bring a featherbed and plenty of quilts. We expect to be in Denerim in four days, and with an armed escort so large, no one will trouble you."

"It does seem the Maker's own luck," Charade said slowly.

"There's so much still to do," Leandra fretted. "How will we ever be ready in time?"

"You have extra hands," Jowan said, with a shy smile. "We'll make sure everything is packed and ready, and then in the morning we can load it up really quickly."

"And you don't have to take everything, Mother," Carver snarked. "Not if you're going to live in a castle."

"Where were you planning to stay in Denerim?" Jowan asked, trying to smooth things over. "I don't think Bronwyn would mind if you stayed at the Wardens' Compound."

"But that's all settled!" Leandra beamed. "Teyrn Cousland has graciously given us leave to stay in his house in town! Such a kind friend to Adam he is."

"But I'd like to see the Compound," Bethany comforted the dashed Carver. "I'm sure it's lovely."

"I'd like to see it, too," Charade chimed in. "It sounds interesting. So let's get packing."

They set to work, stuffing books in crates and wrapping breakable keepsakes. Bethany consulted Jowan about the best way to store her father's magical items so no one would notice them. Meanwhile, Leliana helped Leandra decide how to transport their best clothes so as to prevent wrinkles.

"My dear Adam sent us the loveliest Orlesian silks!" Leandra gushed. "Look at this! I made it for Bethany."

Leliana nodded, evaluating the gown. "Very nice. Such tiny stitching. That shade of blue is very becoming to a dark-haired girl. Your son has excellent taste."

"Adam does everything well. Of course we set to work as soon as his wonderful present arrived. I don't want Adam to be ashamed of our appearance. There was just enough for a gown for each of us, though I would have liked a contrasting underskirt under Bethany's. I didn't want us to dress identically—I'm afraid we'll look like a troupe of minstrels! We have new traveling cloaks, too, from the money Carver gave us. And we all need new boots, but the cobbler here isn't up to really fine work."

"I know a brilliant shoemaker in the Market District," Leliana assured her, deliberately not hearing the reflection on minstrels. "During your stop in Denerim, I will take you there. And any lacks in your wardrobe can be easily amended. Of course, in Highever they have many fine shops and craftsmen, too. I have heard much of the town from our Commander."

"Oh, yes! Lady Bronwyn! She has done our family such good!" Leandra was overflowing with gratitude. She pressed Leliana's hand. "We owe her all our good fortune. Recommending Adam to her lord brother was the best thing to happen to us since my darling Malcolm died."

Leliana smiled. "Teyrn Fergus is a most charming and honorable man. Everyone is glad to know how well your son has got on with him."

She left herself open to a great outpouring of Leandra's maternal tenderness for her son Adam: his looks, his keen intelligence, his extraordinary talents. Leliana only smiled, and listened kindly.

And Jowan, up in the loft, expressed his own views to Bethany. They had torn a worn-out sheet to rags, and were in the process of wrapping a multitude of little vials of potions ingredients. "See what you think of the Compound when you're in Denerim. Maybe you'll find that you'd like being a Warden as much as Carver does."

Bethany smiled and shook her head, fingers working busily. "I can't see fighting darkspawn as anything I'd like."

Jowan handed her more rags. "You'd be safe as a Warden, though. The Chantry couldn't touch you. And we don't fight darkspawn every day. A lot of my work has been healing or research."

"It's nice of you to think of me, but I couldn't leave my mother. I'm really all she has. Well…and Charade, too, though Mother doesn't appreciate Charade like she should. With Carver in the Wardens and Adam in the midst of his oh-so brilliant career, it's just…the three of us."

Jowan raised his brows, smiling a little, "'Oh-so brilliant career?' Are you less than impressed with your brother Adam?"

Bethany sat back in a heap, wiping her hair out of her face, smearing her nose with dust from the vials. It made her look oddly childlike.

"No. Everybody's impressed with Adam. I love him. He's a wonderful brother, but he's very much the golden child. It's only natural, I suppose. Carver resents it, but I've accepted that Adam really is very extraordinary and we all simply exist in his shadow."

Jowan made a face, in complete disagreement. "You're a brilliant mage. Magic is a gift unlike any other. Your brother doesn't have that."

"Much good it does me or anyone. I'm just Bethany. 'Make-the-tea-Bethany.'"

"Well, just come and have a look at the Compound. It's nice. It sounds like your mother will be living with Adam from now on. Maybe you'll want to do something for yourself someday. Just think about it."

And in the kitchen, Charade was talking in a hushed voice to Carver.

"Lady Amell. Lady Leandra Amell. That's what she's going to call herself from now on. Father confessed to her that her parents never disinherited her. The estate is gone, but your mother reckons she has a right to the title. She thinks calling herself that will help Adam up there among the posh Highever folk."

"Maybe," he grunted. So Mother thought herself too good to be a Hawke? "'Lady Amell.' Sounds grand. Too grand for the likes of me."

Charade gave him a cheeky grin. "You have a title, Warden Carver! Your mother brags about you, too. Anyway, I can't complain. Bethany and I have become really and truly friends, and your mother's letting me come with them. I may be the poor relation, but at least I'll have a roof over my head. And I got a really fine gown and a new cloak out of it, so that's all to the good."

Carver grunted a scoffing sort of laugh, and looked around at the shelves.

"Remind me why Mother wants to pack all these pots and things? She's going to be Lady Amell, not mess about in a kitchen. You don't need much more than your camping gear and your clothes and Bethany's lute. And maybe some sewing things, since Mother thinks fine ladies spend all their days embroidering flowers."

Charade cuffed him lightly on the jaw. He danced away, and seized up a cheese hoop and twirled it on his arm. "Might as well leave all this for the Salts. They'll make use of it."

Charade snatched the hoop away. Carver laughed outright. She had quick hands.

"I have an idea," she whispered. "Let's hide this lot in the pantry. I've already packed all the gear we'll need for traveling. Then we'll keep her distracted so she doesn't look for it. And I'll keep out the churn and show her we haven't room for it. Come on!"

Laughing like bad children, they began filling the pantry with pots and pans, with milkpans and roasting forks and drying racks and the rest of country life.

Anora burst out laughing at the last bit of advice from her father.

"…I urge you to consider a marriage with Cousland. If Bronwyn and I have no children, he would be king, and you would once more be Queen. If you like, it can be made a condition of our alliance…"

She set down the letter, and murmured, "I'm several steps ahead of you there, Father."

The royal courier had got through quickly, changing horses at every stop. At least now she knew the shape of the future, and was prepared to take her place in it. As satisfactory as it would have been to rule as unchallenged sovereign of Ferelden, it was not to be. However, to be the daughter of the King of Ferelden was no contemptible thing. And perhaps…just perhaps, the throne would be hers again in the future.

But Father proposed to name her Chancellor! Had Bronwyn agreed to this? That was…an interesting prospect. With the war in the south, the chancellor of the realm would wield extensive powers. Anora had ideas of her own— improvements that would bring Ferelden out of its backward condition— and she longed for the chance to realize them.

The Arl of South Reach had arrived today for his daughter's wedding, which would be held two days hence. He was expected at the Palace later in the afternoon, when he would pay his respects to her and give her some further insight into what was being spoken of in the south. Presumably the courier had caught up with him and given him the latest news about Father and Bronwyn and their plans.

Fergus had written twice to her now. She felt very pleased about her solution to the problem of the Amaranthine troops on Highever soil. If Ser Haglin had any sense at all, he would take her offer of pardon, and head to Ostagar to make his amends. She hoped he would. The sooner that problem was put the rest, the sooner Fergus could join her in Denerim. To build a personal and political alliance, she felt they needed time together.

It was fortunate that mourning became her, for custom demanded that she wear black through the full traditional month of mourning for the King. However, the month would be complete the day before the Bryland-Kendall wedding, giving her the excuse to wear some new gowns. Nothing loud or garish, of course; it would not do to offend people's sensibilities. And winter was coming, so darker colors would be appropriate. Still, the dark blue velvet she planned to wear to the wedding brought out the color of her eyes.

After some time before the mirror, and further time in contemplation, she had decided to change her hair style. She had adopted Eleanor Cousland's look when she was first crowned Queen; feeling that she needed to appear mature, admiring the older woman's elegance, and wanting to show gratitude for her past kindnesses. Now, of course, it was inappropriate. It would never do to remind Fergus of his mother, and only Erlina had really had a knack with balancing the two coiled plaits, anyway. Instead, her long golden hair was woven in a single braid and twisted into an elaborate bun at the base of her neck, with a few curling tendrils softening her face. It was a far more youthful look.

And 'the item' Father spoke of… Had Bronwyn really found the Sacred Ashes? It seemed incredible…but if she had, would they be the cure they hoped for?

She was not feeling ill, except early in the morning and late at night. Wynne had amazing powers, and was a very pleasant woman. Still, to be truly and completely healed…. She tried not to hope for too much, for that way led to crushing disappointment, but if it should work, and she should be cured, and well, and fit to marry…

"Oh, Maker! Make it so!"

With Haglin out of the way, and his knights in firm control of the north, Fergus felt he could ride to Denerim and see what exactly the Queen wanted of him. The ruffians had been banished from Highever; Amaranthine was well patrolled; Bann Frandarel's castellan at the fortress of West Hill had finally reported to Fergus and made his submission. The bann himself was in Denerim, safely ensconced on his luxurious townhouse. Much of the bannorn was there, invited by Urien to his wedding. No one wanted to miss a free feast—and the first feast after the death of the king, at that.

Fergus was almost sorry he would not be there in time. Even if they rode hard, he did not expect to reach Denerim until the ninth. That was two days after the wedding. He would still need to pay a wedding call on the happy couple, of course. Smirking, he tried to picture Urien and Habren as man and wife. Perhaps Habren's pride would be satisfied by the title of Arlessa…at least for a short time. He nearly laughed aloud, imagining her reaction if Bronwyn were to be crowned. The two girls had never got on; not even when they were small.

Hawke rode with him. Fergus thought he would be a good companion on the journey, and as he was fairly new to Fergus' service, he had not been given more serious administrative tasks yet. In time, Fergus would know better what sort of man Ser Adam really was. For the moment it was enough that he was a good swordsman, and could tell a joke without spoiling the punchline.

"We'll stop at the North Road Inn tonight," Fergus called out. "I don't want the horses foundering by the time we reach Denerim."

Anora's letters were something of a puzzle. Was she…flirting with him? Surely not. Her husband was dead only a month. On the other hand, how much would she mourn for a man who was planning to cast her aside? Perhaps she was already looking for a way to move on with her life.

He blinked, coming to a realization. His horse, sensing his confusion, stumbled briefly, making Fergus pay attention to his riding. Was Anora considering him to be part of her future? He would be Bronwyn's heir, after all. He could hardly blame her. He was already getting two or three marriage proposals a day. Anora would be far more to his taste than any of the other 'suitors.' And she was a widow, and he a widower...

Yes, death had ended her marriage with Cailan. Would divorce really have been an option? Perhaps the Divine would have made her a special case and dissolved the marriage by Divine Fiat, but it was inconceivable that Anora would have been left alive and free, nursing her grievance. More likely her murder was always part of the plan, and Cailan, who never heard anything that he did not want to hear, simply put his fingers in his ears, and went on merrily with his scheme, leaving the inevitable dirty work for others. Who else had been marked for death?

Loghain, of course. Surely Cailan had understood that setting Anora aside required the murder of her father. Another coup for the Orlesians, and a sweet one: the elimination of the man, who more than any other was responsible for their loss of Ferelden. There had already been the one attempt. Fergus would be very surprised if there were not others. Bronwyn had best watch out for herself if she was going to be in the man's company.

By now the Empress must know that the king was dead and her plan for conquest by marriage in ruins. Long, ago, Father had told him to remember that the Orlesians always had a plan: always, always, always. If one plan was rendered moot, there was another to take its place. Ferelden was at war and vulnerable. Fergus had made a point of ordering the northern towns to keep a good watch on the Waking Sea.

Fewer and fewer darkspawn were to found in the Wilds. It was a puzzlement for the Wardens. Though the dearth of enemies had given them a brief breathing space, they feared that what came next might be worse than everything they had previously experienced. Even their Fade visions were ambivalent, peculiar. The Archdemon was being very coy. Was it hiding something from them? The Wardens discussed this among themselves, and a plan was made to explore the Blight Wound, the area of tunnels and caves and pits where the darkspawn had first issued from the earth. So few darkspawn were in evidence on the surface that Bronwyn feared they were massing underground for an attack.

A large force marched out of Ostagar early that morning to explore. Scouts and archers, led by Danith and Tara, moved out in front, while Loghain and Bronwyn rode with the main body. Bronwyn had decided to take most of the Wardens with her. They would have a large area to examine, and very likely would have to split up into small teams.

"I'm going to have to conscript more Wardens," Bronwyn told Loghain. "A lot more. I'm sorry to poach from the army, but I see no way to get good people otherwise."

Loghain was only surprised she had not made the demand before. "How many soldiers do you want?"

"I thought I'd start with twenty from your army, twenty dwarves, and ten Dalish. They certainly won't like it, but it's necessary. My people are stretched too thin as it is, and if we're going down below to look for the darkspawn, I need more bodies. And of course, out of that first fifty, I'll be lucky to get half that number as Wardens."

"You can't have Cauthrien."

"I'm not going to steal Cauthrien, though I'm sure she'd survive and be a splendid Warden. I've going to leave it up to you. Have your captains recommend the people, and I'll meet them. I'd like good fighters, but I simply don't know how to judge who's going to survive the Joining. We were fantastically lucky with our first crop of recruits, but I don't expect our luck to hold. I'd prefer volunteers. Perhaps...they shouldn't have families..."

"I'll pass it along and have them sent to you for your approval. If it's known that you're looking for people, you might have more volunteers than you expect."

They made contact with only a few small bands of darkspawn. By the time they reached King's Mountain, Bronwyn was feeling mildly bewildered at the lack of resistance.

The battlefield was ominous enough. Huge scorched patches of earth bore witness to where the piles of darkspawn bodies had been burned. Some of the Taint had soaked into the soil, killing the surrounding vegetation. That, too, was burned to keep it from spreading. It was an ugly scene, and would remain so for many years.

Not wanting to expose any more people than necessary to the Taint, her underground force was comprised of most of the Wardens plus twenty picked warriors from the Legion of the Dead. Outside, Loghain, Alistair, a company of Maric's Shield, and fifteen mages would keep watch in a fortified position in case of a sudden counterattack. Alistair would keep alert for any darkspawn activity. Dalish elves were entrusted with patrolling the area, listening for any activity coming from the tunnels.

They had come this far and seen almost nothing. Before them loomed cracks in the stone cliffs, a few wide-mouthed tunnels, and some bottomless-appearing pits in the earth. The biggest tunnel looked quite large enough for a High Dragon to squeeze through, but no darkspawn challenged them. Save for a few stray birds, the world was silent. Bronwyn fidgeted with her sword belt, not sure what to do.

Alistair whispered to Bronwyn, "Do you think they've retreated? Maybe we've actually beaten them back!"

Bronwyn had studied enough history to know what that meant. "Darkspawn don't retreat. It's possible, though, that the Archdemon has called them in a different direction. That wouldn't mean the end of the Blight. They'd pop up somewhere else."

"Where else?" Loghain asked harshly.

The two Wardens looked at him, not liking to give him the obvious answer, but Bronwyn finally said. "It could be anywhere. Really, anywhere. The Archdemon hasn't been showing us much lately. It could be planning a surprise."

They dismounted, and walked along in front of the tunnel mouths, listening; all their senses open for a hint of darkspawn. Finally,Bronwyn said to Loghain, "I'm really not picking up much of anything. They must have moved fairly far down. I'm getting the most sensation from the big tunnel, so we might as well go that way."

"Don't go far," Loghain ordered. "You don't want to find yourself surrounded and cut off." Alistair shuddered.

"No," Bronwyn agreed. "I don't. A series of probes, then. We'll map out all the branches and try a short distance down each. It will take some time."

He did not move to touch her; not in front of all these people. "Maker watch over you, then."

She gave him a nod and brief smile. Alistair clapped her on the shoulder, with a whispered farewell. Bronwyn turned away, signalling to her people to follow. Her party could deal with pretty much anything other than an attack by the massed horde. A pair of dwarven cartographers was also attached to the party, entrusted with charting out the twists and turns of the raw stone of the tunnels. There was always the possibility that the darkspawn were mining under Ostagar again.

"We'll go about a mile, and then we'll go out and try another tunnel, and then another," Bronwyn said.

"They may connect, Commander," one of the mapmakers told her. "It's almost certain they do. The only question is where."

This was all very disturbing. She had no idea where the Archdemon was. It could, as she had told Loghain, emerge from any number of openings in the earth. There was one very close to the city of Gwaren. There was one southeast of Lake Calenhad, and another one east of the north end of the lake. There was one in the far north, close to the old fortress of West Hill. There were others, too, according to the old dwarven maps. There was one in the middle of the Dragonbone Wastes in the arling of Amaranthine. Those were the ones she knew of. The map they had copied was damaged, and did not show eastern Ferelden very clearly. There might well be more. For all she knew, there was one right under the Royal Palace in Denerim.

Perhaps she should have someone watching those old exits. They were sealed and long unused, for the most part, but someone might have broken into them for a spot of treasure-hunting. During the Rebellion, Loghain had crossed Ferelden traveling along the Deep Roads; going down into them by way of West Hill, and emerging to surprise the Orlesian invaders in Gwaren.

Ideally, the guards on the exits should include Wardens, who could sense darkspawn activity. All the more reason to make a great many more Wardens, and to do it right away. As she prowled underground, her mind was making lists; how many known entrances, how many more Wardens she ultimately would need. With the first levy of fifty, how many would survive?

As she moved deeper into the foul and tainted tunnel, another idea came to her.

Where were the other Wardens? A small band of experienced Wardens would be a gift from the Maker, even if all they did was watch the Deep Road entrances.

The Orlesian Wardens—all but two—had failed them; the First Warden had done worse. Still, there were other Wardens, and surely some of them would like to take part against the first Blight in four hundred years. Where were they?

Surely there was a branch of the order in Nevarra. She knew there was in Antiva, for Oriana had spoken of knowing some of them. There might be some in Rivain, but she simply did not know enough about that country. There were some posts in the Free Marches, but where? They were not in every city, she now understood.

The story of Garahel held some clues... yes...he served at Ansburg. There was a post in Ansburg, and one in Tantervale. There must be Wardens in Tevinter, but her mind revolted against begging them for aid. Tevinters were slavers. Tevinters were heretics. No, she would not ask anything of them. That the Grey Wardens were some sort of brotherhood was clearly a myth. Then she remembered Genetivi's book. Perhaps there was something in there about Wardens. She would look when she finished here.

Brosca dropped back to talk to Adaia, whose huge eyes were flicking about her in horror and disgust. "So... this is your first time in the Deep Roads... What do you think?"

"I think it stinks," Adaia declared. "This is awful. Somebody needs to scrub this place down with lye soap."

A ripple of laughter. Bronwyn laughed with the rest. "That's a lot of soap!"

"These aren't the real Deep Roads," Kardol, Commander of the Legion of the Dead, corrected them. "These shoddy diggings are darkspawn work. We know the Deep Roads head toward Ostagar, but we're not sure how far."

"Well, they must connect with the Deep Roads," Bronwyn said, "because we saw the Archdemon in the Dead Trenches. The creature has been moving along the Deep Roads, wherever it pleases. Where it is now is anyone's guess."

Abruptly, the vague sensation of darkspawn changed from an ominous tickle to a harsh rasp. Bronwyn raised her hand, and the party slowed. "Something big up ahead."

A pair of scrawny hurlocks materialized from around a corner and rushed them. Danith shot them down, and the rest finished them off.

They met more darkspawn as the tunnel angled down: a few small parties; a larger party led by an emissary; one very powerful Hurlock warrior. Nearly all the darkspawn they came across were hurlocks, in fact. A curious smell reached them…curious and ugly and then, all too recognizable. And that was when they saw the first of the pinkish tendrils. Scout pawed at it and growled.

"A Broodmother," groaned Tara. "We really don't need this."

"Let's scout it out carefully," Bronwyn said, her voice low. "Perhaps it would be smarter to go back for a band of archers or a ballista. A Broodmother is a stationary target, after all."

"For the record," Zevran remarked, "I like that idea."

They entered a broader chamber, when the pulpy matter had spread over the stone floor and twined up along the sides. A few pulsing bags glowed a darker pink. Bronwyn gave a wordless signal and swords were slashing through them. Half-formed hurlocks spilled out wetly, squealing as they were hewn asunder.

Danith's face was white with horror. Bronwyn remembered that she, like Adaia, had not been with them in the dark of the Deep Roads on that first, terrible adventure there. For that matter, few of the Legion had actually seen this.

"This is how a Broodmother reproduces," she explained, raising her voice just a very, very little. "The captured female, whether human, dwarven, or elven, loses her mind, and is transformed. The body swells enormously and the feet atrophy. These tendrils lead to sacs where the darkspawn form. Broodmothers, though they cannot pursue you, are very powerful and dangerous enemies. They develop strange abilities. Beware their spit. It is a deadly poison and can blind you. Their arms are tiny in proportion with their size, but have very sharp claws. The massive bodies are difficult to wound, since they are heavily padded with fat, but they are vulnerable to magic. They can also summon their brood. When we locate the Broodmother, we'll see if we can withdraw and obtain heavier weapons."

Her heart fluttered like a netted bird; telling her to get away, get away, get away… The pain and terror of her encounter with the Broodmother in the Dead Trenches had never quite faded, any more than the scar on her face or her poison-green eyes. Dragons were terrifying creatures, but they did not inspire the skin-crawling dread she felt now. She would be prudent. She would not risk losing another Warden as she had Cullen. They would destroy the Broodmother, but they would do so sensibly and without stupid heroics.

"Archers!" she called out softly, first to Danith, and then to those in the Legion. "If we can't withdraw easily after spotting the Broodmother, aim at the head. It's not an easy target, for it's a tiny object high atop a massive body, but that is the only place where your arrows will do much good. And remember, the thing you see is not a woman anymore."

Down they went: down and down. The pulpy mattered squelched audibly under their boots. Ichor leaked out, and the stench of it sharpened. They found and destroyed a large number of darkspawn sacs.

"This one's a real breeder," Oghren grunted.

The tunnel opened even more, revealing a big natural cavern. At the far end were a number of fissures, some of them very wide. Bronwyn could sense darkspawn in that general direction, but it was difficult to tell which of the fissures she should enter. The dwarves spread out, inspecting the stone work for clues.

"Commander!" Kardol called to her in a careful rumble. "This way, maybe? Down there…" he squatted down and thrust his torch deeper into the largest opening. "Look at the bottom. Dwarvenwork. This might be where we connect to the Deep Roads!"

"Mark it," Bronwyn briefly instructed the mapmakers. "Mark them all, but we'll follow this one."

The darkspawn sensation was intense now. Sacs hung from thickening tendrils with numbing regularity. Now and then, hurlocks leaped out at them from branching tunnels and alcoves. Bronwyn was tempted to pull back and examine some of the other tunnels. She dreaded the possibility of being ambushed down here. Just a little farther, and then they would head back to the surface—or at least to a side tunnel.

Zevran and Danith moved ahead, cat-footed and silent, peering around corners. The air had changed, growing ever rank. There was noise up ahead: a low wailing, inharmonious and painful to the ears. As they approached, it grew louder; a cacophony of anguish. Not on a single note, either, but clashing and dissonant, as if a band was playing out of tune. Scout whined and pawed at Bronwyn's knee, unhappy at getting any closer.

"I can feel it, Commander!" Kardol whispered. "There's a big chamber around the corner!"

Danith got there first, crouched cautiously behind a protruding rock. She leaned out, sleek muscles tense and still. She did not move, and Bronwyn grew impatient, moving up behind her. Zevran leaned around the corner above her, paused and pulled back. He saw Bronwyn and frowned, with a quick shake of his head. He pulled insistently on Danith's arm, whispering something into her ear. Danith withdrew behind the rocks, her movements stiff and awkward, her eyes glazed. By the time Bronwyn reached them, Zevran had composed himself.

"You must look," he whispered, voice nearly inaudible under the hellish din from the chamber. "You must look, but quickly. Then we must go back and plan."

Zevran helped Danith away. Bronwyn glanced at the Dalish girl in concern. Her mouth was slack; she appeared to be in shock. Well, why shouldn't she be if she had just had her first glimpse of a Broodmother?

Careful not to bang her armor against the stone, Bronwyn peered cautiously over the rock, and an involuntary gasp escaped her. She clenched her teeth together, willing herself to be silent, to observe, to count, to think.

There must be nearly a dozen of them: monstrous, grotesque, bloated; their mindless moaning echoing through the caverns, vibrating up from the floor. Tentacles waved like seagrass in the surf, little clawed arms clutched futilely at thin air. Most horribly, their heads were still the heads of women: recognizable as human, but the eyes dull, unfocused; the faces filthy; the hair matted and foul.

She slowed her breathing, and counted. Three…five…eight…and one more. There were nine Broodmothers here. No wonder the place was filled to bursting with their wretched spawn. The Archdemon may have summoned the horde elsewhere, but these Broodmothers could never move from the place where they had been made.

Considering every movement, she edged back and pulled herself out of sight. Zevran was staring at her, his eyes very wide, offering her a canteen.

She shook her head, and gestured him back.

"We're going," she mouthed at him. "Too many for us."

They returned the next day with three ballistae, with a large party of archers, with fire bombs and shock bombs and with Dworkin's lyrium grenades. With reinforcements. Carefully, they checked out the nearby tunnels, and stationed enough people in them to prevent ambushes.

Loghain insisted on coming. Bronwyn did not argue about it. She felt that he should see and understand the worst of the enemy they were fighting. However, while they were underground, she told him, she was in command. He frowned, but agreed. She sensed that he was only humoring her; that it was a pretense, and an infuriating one. She had no doubt that if things went pear-shaped, he would attempt to take over.

Of her own people, everyone insisted on coming. This was an important action, and well supported. Alistair refused to be left behind again. Even Adaia, warned about how bad it was going to be, wanted to help.

"I'll bring bombs," she promised. "Lots and lots of bombs."

Very cautiously, they prepared for this attack by exploring and closing the other fissures in the nearest big cavern, and by destroying all the darkspawn sacs along the way. Bronwyn felt a little mean satisfaction at Loghain's pause and silent absorption of that nasty little reality.

And they met some resistance—more than before. Bands of hurlocks—some newborns naked and unarmed—rushed up the tunnels and were shot down, blown apart, incinerated. And then there was the final revelation of the Broodmother chamber. That was even worse than anticipated, for some of the Broodmothers were recognizable... and recognized. A pair of soldiers collapsed at the sight of an old friend's head surmounted on a hideous hulk. A few vomited. Some wept. Others cursed. There were screams, and misery, and Loghain's stoic, haunted stare. Bronwyn glanced at the creature his gaze was fixed on, but she did not know her. Many women had been lost in the Bloomingtide Battle. Many had been lost since then.

Before she led them here, Bronwyn had made a point of explaining what they were to face: what a Broodmother was, how they were made, and that they had forgotten their lives as women and were now lethal monsters. Clearly, she would have to work on making herself better understood, for the warriors with her were wholly unprepared for the horror of it. Mercifully, no one asked her if the women could not somehow be saved. It was all too terribly plain that they could not be. It was difficult to issue commands...it was difficult to think in the clamoring din of the chamber, where the Broodmothers wailed, and groaned, and screamed.

Their spawn swarmed in, but were met with archer volleys and bombs and fireballs. Ballista bolts, impregnated with poison, worked well on the Broodmothers themselves. It still took a great deal of time to finish them off. Bronwyn's people used precautions, but a few of the others were hit by the poisoned spit. Even then, waves of darkspawn attacked them them. Bronwyn had the Legion of the Dead lock shields, stationed the archers behind them, and they pushed their way to a bottleneck, forcing the darkspawn to come at them in twos and threes that could be easily slaughtered.

And slaughter it was. Corpses piled up, and the darkspawn climbed over them, squawking. The mages set the piles of darkspawn dead afire, burning those behind them. Human, dwarf, and elf alike were almost suffocated by the reeking black smoke.

"Let me try freezing them!" Tara shouted. Bronwyn gave her the nod and waved at Anders to do likewise. This worked well. Combined with shock bombs, the darkspawn shattered into bloody fragments. Bloody slime coated the walls and splashed randomly up to the stalactites hanging from the cavern's ceiling. At length, the attacks slowed, and then stopped, and there was nothing left to be done but clean up the unspeakable mess left behind.

Bronwyn ordered everyone out but Wardens and dwarves, though that order was not universally obeyed at first. Soldiers remained to gape at the dead Broodmothers, unable to believe what they were seeing. Bronwyn was surprised at the drawn, sick expression on Ser Cauthrien's face: she had imagined the woman to be unshakeable. Somehow, she found herself liking Loghain's trusted lieutenant the better for that revealing moment.

Some of her Wardens were no better off. Adaia was crying, her arms around Danith. Tara was drooping, slumped wearily against a thick stalagmite. Brosca and Astrid were talking together, too low to be heard in all the noise, their faces hard and determined. Morrigan alone forced her expression into blank calm, but her shaking hands and unnaturally shrill voice betrayed how much the effort was costing her.

Bronwyn grimaced at Loghain, wishing he would go, knowing that her face must be as black with soot as his. "This is dangerous for anyone other than Wardens!" Bronwyn called to him, over the confusion made by scores of voices echoing in the cavern. "Too much exposed darkspawn blood! We can finish here!"

He gave her a hard, inscrutable look, but before he could answer, a young soldier was shouting in her ear.

"The heads, Commander!"

She stared at him, not understanding.

"The heads," he repeated, looking pained. "We want to give them decent rites. Can we take the women's heads with us?"

Alistair gaped, disgusted by the idea. "Go!" he shouted at the soldier. "You can't do anything for them."

"But—"

"No!" Bronwyn snapped at him. "They're Tainted! Everything down here is Tainted. Stay away from the bodies and the blood and everything else! Go to the surface and wash it all off" The anguish on the man's face reached her. "They will be burned. Pray for them!" She glared at Loghain. "Get them out of here! They're likely to be infected if they stay."

"Some will be, anyway," he told her grimly. "But as you like. At least we've deprived the darkspawn of further reinforcements."

The Wardens were left with the tasks of killing anything that still moved, and setting fires that reduced most of the corpses to ash. They would let them burn for a day or two, and then come back to clear the way. The mystery of the Archdemon's current location, unfortunately, was still a mystery.

Her friends gathered round, staring solemnly at the hillocks of dead monsters.

"Yup," said Oghren, "I'd call this a good day's work."

"Me, too," Brosca agreed, "though I wish we'd brought a few barrels of ale down here with us."

Bronwyn laughed, a sound that came out more as a cracked groan.

"What seems to you amusing?" Danith asked, nearly numb with the horrors and efforts of the day.

"I just remembered," Bronwyn said, blowing out a deep sigh, "that far away in Denerim, up on the surface, my cousin Habren is being married today, in a grand ceremony probably entirely devoid of darkspawn."

Wynne made her way carefully through the labyrinth of the Royal Palace. The Queen was responding well to her twice-daily treatments. It was personally taxing for Wynne herself, but she tried not to let the young woman see it. Why should Anora feel guilty, when it was so clearly Wynne's duty to her patient?

And it was all made easier by the fact that Wynne liked this particular patient. Queen Anora was so pleasant, so courteous, so appreciative of Wynne's efforts. She had no fear of well-intentioned mages, though Wynne would have preferred that she be a little more wary of Jowan. Still, whatever Jowan had done, he had attempted to make up for it by his scrupulous care for the Queen.

A pity he was not a more talented Healer. Sadly, Jowan was not the best exemplar of what the Circle could offer. Little wonder that he had been intended for the Rite of Tranquility. That would never happen, now, of course, now that Jowan was a Grey Warden. He seemed to be serving well, and in this time of crisis, perhaps— all Wynne's first impressions to the contrary—perhaps he was where he needed to be.

Such a maze! How different from the simplicity of the Circle, with its long spiral staircases and circular corridors: it was far more logical than the Palace. The Palace was more like a living thing; growing organically over time.

She had not seen all of the Palace, of course. Her own duties kept her to the Queen's private quarters, the Little Audience Chamber, the solar at the top of the West Tower, the Royal Library, and, once or twice, the Family Dining Room. There were whole floors she had not seen, and whole towers out of bounds. The King's private quarters, unsurprisingly, were sealed off. The poor young Queen no doubt could not bear for them to be changed in any way.

Twice a day, Wynne visited the Queen for the regenerative treatments. Aside from that, Wynne's time was very much her own. It was a quiet life. Most of it was spent in the Wardens' Compound, in her own comfortable room. A little confining, of course, but that was the nature and burden of the life of a mage.

She had done a great deal of reading, and she had taken on a share of sewing and knitting from Mistress Rannelly, that good woman. The Wardens needed fresh tunics, sturdy shirts and socks, clean smallclothes and warm cloaks. Grey Wardens were hard on their clothes: it was to be expected. Wynne was happy to help with the work, enjoying the cheerful company of the staff.

The next lot would be sent south in two days, when Arl Bryland returned to Ostagar after his daughter's wedding. Such a nice nobleman. Wynne sighed, wishing she could think of something equally pleasant to say about his daughter. Of course, they had never met—not formally—but Wynne had seen her.

She was…pretty. Yes, she was definitely pretty. Good features, with a slight resemblance to her cousin, Lady Bronwyn. Too bad her expression was so unpleasant—almost sneering. She was young, of course, and there was plenty of time for her to mature. Wynne hoped that Arl Urien was kinder and more accommodating in private than he was when walking the corridors of power.

She passed the tantalizing door that she understood led to the War Room. That, too, was a place she had not seen. It was supposed to be very handsome in a severe way. Perhaps it was something like the Wardens' Hall. Wynne had grown quite fond of that place. It was so pleasant to see Warden-Commander Duncan's portrait in a place of honor. Wynne had liked the man. Such a beautiful voice, now silent forever...

The Queen was very busy today, dressing for the wedding. It was clear to Wynne that the Queen did not care much for Lady Habren or Arl Urien, either, but she would do her duty, as she always did. Wynne would see the Queen late tonight, when Her Majesty returned to the palace after the wedding feast. In the meantime, Wynne's time would be spent pleasantly and industriously.

Out through the west door, and then only a few steps across a courtyard to the Warden's Gate. A kitchenmaid at the Warden's Compound was fond of feeding the pigeons in the courtyard, and there were always clouds of them. Though..how quiet it was today! Everyone must be busy, preparing for the Queen to leave for the Cathedral. She, of course, would go out through the King's Gate, where the royal coach would await her. Perhaps Wynne could slip out and watch later.

Where was the guard? Shame on him! There was always supposed be a guard here. He was gone, probably to scrounge something from the kitchens, which were not too far from here.

Wynne pushed the door open, and the gloom of the stone corridors gave way to a burst of sunshine. Briefly blinded, Wynne, paused, squinting.

The smite struck her without warning. She was falling, she was helpless, her mana squeezed and drained like a fruit ripe for plucking. The stone steps were coming up to meet her face…

From a great distance, she felt the strong hands seizing her; hands encased in leather and steel. The men were silhouettes, dark shadows against the light, faceless in their helmets. The only sounds were the startled pigeons cooing and fluttering in the courtyard, and the scrape of boots on stone steps, and low muttered commands.

"Put that phylactery away! We won't need it anymore."

Wynne knew she must reason with the Templars; she must explain to them that she had duties here…very important duties to the Queen; but her tongue was sluggish, unable to form words. Only an incoherent "Unhh…Unhh…Unhh" issued from her numbed lips.

"Shut her up!"

The Templar's sword pommel rose and fell. A thunderclap of pain slammed into Wynne's skull. White light flashed across her eyes. She slumped, held in remorseless arms, her skull fractured, vaguely aware of the slow, wet trickle down her temple. She gazed curiously at the tracks in the gravel her heels made as they dragged her away.

No, not like this…not like this…I was supposed to see the Queen again tonight…

Thanks to my reviewers: KnightOfHolyLight, MsBarrows, Enaid Aderyn, demonicnargles, sizuka2, anon, Psyche Sinclair, Zute, Chandagnac, Kira Kyuu, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Granoc, Blinded in a bolthole, JackOfBladesX, Costin, euromellows, Pirate Ninjas of the Abyss, Nemrut, Jenna53, Jyggilag, Josie Lange, almostinsane, riverdaleswhiteflash, Halm Vendrella, tgcgoddess, Shakespira, Notnahtanha, Gene Dark, EpitomyofShyness, mille libri, Connie Weasley, Tsu Doh Nimh, Have Socks. Will Travel, and Biff McLaughlin.